


The Last Spring

by riventhorn



Category: SUTCLIFF Rosemary - Works, The Rider of the White Horse - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Angst, English Civil War, F/M, Historical, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3961597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The King is going to be put on trial. Anne knows that Cromwell will want Thomas to be there, but she fears that if he goes, it will completely destroy the man she once loved so completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Spring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kotturinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kotturinn/gifts).



> This takes place about three years after the end of the book, in December and January 1648-1649. The Second English Civil War has come to an end but Parliament is divided among those who want to negotiate with the King and those who want to put him on trial and execute him. Thomas Fairfax commands the New Model Army, and the Army is on the side of Cromwell and the others who want to kill the King. 
> 
> Many thanks to Isis for the beta! 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit is being made from this.

Anne was just alighting from the coach and trying to keep her skirts out of the mud when Charles D’Oyley rode into the yard of Nun Appleton, wet to the bone and shivering. 

“Charles!” she exclaimed, staring up at him. “What brings you here from London?”

“News,” he replied in a grim voice, sliding off the saddle and squelching over to her. “Bad news, Lady Fairfax.”

Anne immediately looked towards the house. Thomas was there, still abed, home ill these past few weeks. She looked back at Charles. “It’s Ireton, isn’t it? In God’s name, what has he done now?”

“What General Fairfax stopped him from doing a year ago,” Charles replied. 

Anne stared at him. “The Purge?” she said slowly, unwilling to believe it.

But Charles nodded. “It happened six days ago. I rode as fast I could to bring the news. Had you heard that the Army had occupied London in defiance of Parliament?”

“Only just. Thomas wanted to go back, but he’s been taken so poorly.”

“Despite the occupation, Parliament voted to continue negotiations with the King.” Charles shook his head. “As if they didn’t know what that would do! As if Ireton and Ludlow and the others would ever let that stand! The Independents gave Ireton the authority to purge Parliament of those who had opposed the Army and Cromwell. The very next morning, a Colonel Pride led his regiment to guard the approaches to the House of Commons. They arrested forty-five and held them in Queen’s Court. You can imagine how the soldiers treated them—Prynne, Waller, and the rest of their faction. Every man in the Army blames them for withholding their pay, and the soldiers had them at their mercy.”

The thought of it sickened her. “I suppose there was not much mercy shown.”

“No.” Charles took a breath and looked at her again. “A few managed to escape the city, but most of them remain under arrest.”

“And Cromwell?” Anne tried to keep her voice steady. “What has he had to say about it?”

“He arrived in London the day after and—and approved all of it.” Charles’s jaw clenched. “You know what this means, Lady Fairfax?”

“Cromwell will put the King on trial,” she said dully. And he would want Thomas to be there, sitting in judgment with him. 

“I must tell General Fairfax of these events,” Charles said, putting a gentle hand on her arm as she stood there, numb with cold and shock.

“Of course.” Anne roused herself, leading him into the house. “It was unforgivable of me to keep you standing out there in the wet—”

“Lieutenant D’Oyley!” 

Moll’s delighted shout interrupted Anne, who stepped to the side as her daughter launched herself at a surprised Charles.

“Little Moll, is it?” he said, returning her hug. “By my life, you must be two inches taller than last we met.”

Anne noted with amusement that her daughter did not object to Charles calling her “Little Moll,” although a month earlier she had primly informed Anne and Thomas that she did not think the nickname was suitable for a young lady who was now ten years old, and had insisted on “Mary” ever since.

“Go and tell the kitchens to prepare a hot drink and supper for the Lieutenant,” Anne told her. “He has news to bring to your father and cannot be delayed any longer.”

Moll trotted off obediently, and Charles mounted the stairs to Thomas’s room. Anne remained in the hallway, the full import of the events sinking into her. Thank God Thomas had not been in London or he would have had no choice but to get involved. And she…did not know what his decision would have been.

Oh, but it hurt to admit that. Her feet moved of their own accord down the hallway, taking her to her chamber, driven by the need to remove her wet things and get warm by the fire. But her mind was in that room on Queen Street, three years past and with the scent of snowdrops filling the air, and Thomas tilting her head and smiling down at her with his sweet, gentle smile. _Love me still, Nan_ , he had said to her, _I should be very lonely without your love_. 

She had known him to be a changed man, then, as they had talked of how the Cause had been sullied by factions and intolerance, and she had seen what the war had done to him. But he had still been her Thomas, at the heart of it. 

But then, just when they thought the war was finished, everything had fallen apart. The Royalists took up arms again, and Thomas went to lay siege to Colchester along with Henry Ireton, Cromwell’s son-in-law and right-hand man. 

She had been in London with her mother, and the papers had been filled with reports of the horrors at Colchester as the city’s inhabitants, many of them Parliamentarians, starved along with the Royalists. The poor souls had taken to sending small boys—the only ones who could slip past the barricades—with messages pleading for help. And Thomas’s men—men under _his_ command—had caught one of the boys and ripped out his fingernails. 

And then—Anne made herself remember the rest, despite the thick shame that choked her throat at the memory—when the Royalists finally surrendered, the common men had been sent off in chains to the colonies and the two commanders, Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle, had been executed by firing squad. Never— _never_ in either war had such a thing happened, not when commanders had surrendered to mercy. And it had been Thomas who had ordered the executions. 

When they had met again about two weeks later, she had looked at him and been unable to find any words. Thomas had not been able to meet her eyes. Instead, he had looked out the window and said, “Lucas broke his parole by taking up arms against Parliament again. And they were both mad to defend Colchester. I lost almost a thousand men, Anne. All those young men who will never return home because two arrogant commanders could not accept when they were beaten.”

“And the children of Colchester, Thomas?” she had said quietly. “Those little boys who…” She could not finish.

He had not replied for a long time. “Ireton argued very persuasively that we must make an example,” he said at last. “That if we did not, the war would only drag on longer.”

“So he counseled you to abandon your honor?” she had demanded. 

“I did what I felt necessary,” he had replied and walked from the room. He had returned to his headquarters, and she had not seen him again until he came back to Nun Appleton, sick and weary. 

And now Ireton had purged Parliament, and she wanted to believe that Thomas had possessed no knowledge of his plans. But there had been couriers going back and forth from Nun Appleton to London for weeks. What if one of them had carried word from Ireton to Thomas? What if Thomas _had_ known, and done nothing?

Three years ago, she would have said without hesitation that Thomas would never agree to such a thing. But now—now she could only think back onto those early days when she had been following Thomas and his soldiers, the sense of closeness and shared danger, the _love_. She could only think of those days and mourn what had become of them. 

*

Anne went to Thomas later that evening. He was lying in bed, face sallow and lined with pain. The last few weeks had been bad—as bad as when they had first been married and she had nursed him for so long. 

She rearranged the pillows, helping him to sit up a little more, and tended the fire in the grate. Then she turned to face him. They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Say whatever it is you have to say, Nan,” he said at last. 

Her heart beat faster, and she curled her right hand into a fist, nails digging into her palm. “Did you know?”

Thomas flinched and his mouth trembled before firming into a hard line. “So, this is what you think of me,” he murmured, and then louder, “No. I had no knowledge of Ireton’s plans. Believe me or not, as you wish.”

“Of course I believe you!” She drew a deep breath, checking herself from rushing to him and shaking him, fury and grief almost overwhelming her. “You have never lied to me, Thomas. And I have never lied to you.”

“No. You have not.” His mouth twitched into a bitter smile. “Perhaps it would have been better if we were not so…honorable towards each other.”

She did not reply, fussing unnecessarily with her skirts for a moment before taking a step towards the bed. “There will be a trial.”

“Yes.”

“You will not be going.”

He laughed, a sharp burst of sound. “Of course I will go. Cromwell will expect me to be there. I command his New Model Army, after all. My absence would be…remarked upon.”

“You will tell them that you are unwell. It is true enough.”

Thomas shook his head. “My health has never prevented me from doing my duty before.”

“This is not your duty!” She shouted the words, and he blinked up at her, surprised. “Your duty is to abide by what you believe to be right. And you have done that, Thomas, God knows. And you have also let them tarnish your honor.” Her breath was coming quickly again, and her hand trembled when she pointed it at him. “I will not let them dishonor you or this family again!”

For a moment, his stillness broke, a shiver trembling across his face. He shut his eyes, whispering, “Ireton did not make me do anything, Nan. God help me, he did not.”

She wanted to take him in her arms. She wanted to take away his pain, take away all that he had suffered this past year. But she knew that if she tried, he would turn away from her or, perhaps worse, submit to her caress only to remain stiff and unmoved in her embrace.

Anne did not bother to hide the tears in her voice when she spoke again. “If ever you loved me, Thomas, you will stay away from London and that trial.” 

He sighed. “And when they call my name? When they call my name and there is no answer? How is that bravery or honor?”

“There will be an answer,” she said. “Because I will give it.”

*

A month later she was in London. The city was in an uproar, Trained Band and Model Army officers still at each other’s throats. She kept to her mother’s house, avoiding the crowds, thankful that she had insisted that Moll stay at Nun Appleton. Thomas had _not_ stayed, and he had met with Cromwell and Ireton several times. But on this morning, he called for her, and she found him sitting in a chair, staring into the fire. 

“You wished to speak to me?” she said, standing in the doorway.

He nodded, not lifting his eyes from the hearth. “I will not be going out this morning,” he said. “Do you understand, Nan?”

She shut her eyes for a moment, relief washing over her. “I understand,” she replied and went to fetch her cloak.

The galleries were already packed when she arrived in the courtroom and the air in the chamber was hot and stifling despite the cold air outside. Anne had pushed her way forward on the floor, close enough that she had a good view of both Cromwell and Ireton— _may he be cursed to Hell-fire_. 

She looked at Cromwell, remembering the night he had given her a present for Moll to distract her daughter from the pain of her toothache. If she had known what was to come—she would have refused it and spat at his feet.

He was reading aloud the names of the commissioners who would try the King. There were replies, other times silence. Then at last—“Lord Thomas Fairfax.”

Anne drew a breath. “He had more wit than to be here,” she said, loudly enough to carry through the crowd.

There were murmurs, a rustling among the gallery. But Cromwell only paused a moment and then moved on, never looking up from his scroll. She was left to watch him, to watch this farce of a trial. And when the trial ended, coming to its inevitable conclusion, she would go home, to the man with whom she had once smelled the sweetness of the snowdrops.

But their spring was now over. It would never come again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thomas's line, _Love me still, Nan. I should be very lonely without your love_ , is taken directly from the book. Anne's retort at the trial, "He had the wit not to be here," I found on this website (http://bcw-project.org/biography/sir-thomas-fairfax), which seemed pretty accurate, so I believe that she was actually there and said something to that effect.
> 
> I felt like Sutcliff ended _The Rider of the White Horse_ on a very hopeful note in terms of Anne and Thomas's relationship. When I started reading about what happened to Thomas during the events of the Second English Civil War, particularly the Siege of Colchester when he sanctions some very harsh and vindictive measures against the Royalists, I wanted to explore what that would do to his relationship with Anne. She has such a deep faith in Thomas's honor and essential goodness as a person in the book, but I felt that these events would really shake her faith in him. Plus, I had to get in the part where she says "He had more wit than to be here" when they call Thomas's name at the trial because it is such an awesome moment.


End file.
